


This is A True Story, Only Safe Place I Can Share It. Fanfic Saves Lives.

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Other, fandom saves lives, fanfic saves lives, queer, true story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 18:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13464405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: Posted this on Tumblr.I'll probably delete this. I needed to tell it.You've all helped save me. Writing again. Thank you.





	This is A True Story, Only Safe Place I Can Share It. Fanfic Saves Lives.

“.. _wants me to piss my breeches and beg his mercy but he’ll never have that pleasure._ He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, no sellsword would make him scream.

…it came shivering down too fast to see. And Jamie screamed.”

GRRM, Storm of Swords, p 297

 

It’s exactly what you think. This isn’t fiction. I wish it was.

 

This is what happened four years ago before I started to write fanfic.

 

I need to tell it. This is the only place I can.

Because you know me for who I am for what I write. Thank you.

Because no one would believe me. No court, no allies, no one who’s supposed to help people like me.

Not when they look at me. Or her.

Because she wasn’t a straight rich white cis man. She wasn’ t straight, white, nor a man.

Because I’m a pervert. I’m a bad victim because I imagine and play with dirty things, because I write incest,twincest threesomes, bondage, because I read and write dubcon and bloodplay and age gaps and underage and violence and I’m sick and I like it that way. Because I love villains and bitches and high fantasy and GRRM and Westeros and I’ve been told I’m a shit woman for that alone. Because I don’t want to name me a victim or a survivor, only me.

Because I don’t fit the story people want to tell.

Because I screamed. I fell.

Four years ago, she raped me.

She. Raped. Me.

She was biracial, kinky, poly, queer, feminist. Top.

Safe space isn’t. Hearing words meant to be kind and protective make me feel queasy and afraid. Then angry.

Intersectional–she was queer and femme and multiracial and lots of other things. She had mental challenges and family issues and she assured me of her support. How lonely the world could be for girls like us. We talked about politics and inclusivity and flaws in the system and kinky thoughts and art. I was at home ill so much. I was so lonely

She encouraged my art. Told me I was pretty. When I told her about chronic illness, mental illness, abuse she nodded and listened and said all the right things. Sweet as sugar.

She wrote me every day. Told me how brave I was, how strong. Flirted, called me pet names, like they did where she was from (even though that was the suburbs, just like me.)She made sure I had a comfortable place to sit at my local con because of my chronic pain.

I hate myself that I cared about her, called her my friend, the harbored a crush that she knew about.

(Yes, she was beautiful. Evil things are.)

I wanted her to like me too. I hung on every word.

That night–around three years since we had met, I hadn’t even wanted to go to the event but went along to be friendly with her and her partner even though I knew nothing was going to happen, though I’d let her pull my hair and pet my hair every now and then. When she wanted to.

I wanted to go somewhere with her.

She knew that I did.

I didn’t want to go to this event, it was just somewhere. And she asked.

A queer party. All genders and none together, celebrating being sexy. Fucking.She said it would be fun, a group of us. Just hanging out.

I wanted to go to a drag show instead.

I’d been drinking. I was on meds. They made it worse.

(I’d told her about it. She knew what they did, how they affected me, the heavy benzos and such.)

But it was fun. A queer party. A safe space.

I hadn’t been out for so long.

That night, I felt brave and beautiful just like she said. I asked her to play sometime later, not that night because it was too soon, I wanted to be sure. She said yes.

I hate that this made me happy.

I hate that I was happy that she smiled.

She had her partner keep getting me wine, my cup never empty, everything was swimming.

(No fratboy ever did this, no fuckboy, no privileged wealthy, male villain. I knew what to look for there, how to hold my hand over my red cup.

All the people who walked me home in college to be sure I was safe, checked in on me at cons were privileged white guys. Fanboys.

I thought I knew.)

But we were friends.

Women together.

I never said yes to what happened.

Not to having my clothes off, being spread.

Never said yes to other people’s fingers. Never said yes to her.

I was dizzy and laughing.

I came out of a haze of wine and gggles and nausea and she was spitting, she was spitting

she spit on me. Over and over.

I never asked. This was a hard limit. I said I hated it.

I hated it then.

But she was doing it and we were having so much fun weren’t we and I couldn’t feel anything and I couldn’t say no–and shouldn’t she get to do what she wanted, I shouldn’t top from the bottom should I?

I had manners.

I won’t cry.

When it was done, everyone else got aftercare cuddles, lay in warm snuggly pleather girlboiboigenderqueer piles.

She wouldn’t cuddle me.

She got me a glass of water. Some homemade protein heavy snack brought in a glass jar.

She tucked me in my hotel bed and left. She told me I was good.

Later, she said I was too clingy. Couldn’t I tell that she didn’t want attention, that I was selfish, interrupting her space, her self-care?

I just wanted her to pay me mind like she had.

I got left when she and my friends went to events. I heard it was because of drama. Mine.

I hadn’t told anyone. She wanted to be discreet. I honored that.

She never told me I was pretty again. Or sweet.

I didn’t know why.

I cried.

Even though I said I never would.

She was my friend, my ally, my companion.

She understood things. Spoke my language. Knew all the right words, ways to be safe, acronyms. 

(Queer girls like us don’t do this. Men do. It couldn’t be true)

It was just a miscommunication. Clash of ideas, ideals. Bad scene, unsatisfying sex. What else could it be?

I found myself screaming taking every gift she’d ever given me, shredding them, putting them in the garbage, things I thought I’d treasure forever.

I couldn’t look at them or have them looking at me.

When they were in the Dumpster I could breathe.

When I tried to confront her about “our miscommunication”, she told me I was a liar.

(In the past, she told us she’d been plagued by liars, crazy exes, extending her fingers elegantly to spiral by her temple. Loco)

Told me to never write, never contact and never speak to her again, to have a blessed life.

I was outside the safe space again. There was no one to tell. Nothing I could do.

It would cause a scene. Embarrass me.

I’d spoken my truth, told people I trusted about my problems, meds, pain. Told her everything. Been open.)

I’d acted like I liked her. Hadn’t I?

I told the truth about me.

And because of it no one would believe me now.

I told one friend.

A queer, femme one.

Like me.

The friend told me I had been hanging on the one, paying too much attention and maybe she didn’t like that. My friend suggested I change my perspective and think about her side. To be fair.

I didn’t tell anyone else.

I carried it, a rotting limb around my neck.

Phantom. Only I could see it, only I could feel.

Invisble means I still feel pain.

I try not to feel sick when I see certain artists, smell certain things,see a pair of vintage black leather gloves small enough to cover dirty hands. I will not look away in fear. The sick won’t win, she won’t win.

I swallow my story all the time. Because there’s nowhere I can tell it. Because I’m not even a good enough fangirl, nerd, kinky person.

There’s no trigger warning for this, there’s no manners, kindness, no buffer to try and shield me.

There’s no way to explain.

I’m still a problem, still too much. No one would believe me.

There isn’t a word for what she is.

There is.

There isn’t a word for what I am.

But I’m still alive. Still a pervert, still dirty, still bad, still here, still writing smut. I’m here. I’m here.

I have allies I can write again. I am here.

Thank you all. You keep me here.


End file.
